


Come-Back

by nebulaethereal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Dreams, Dreamsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Good Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Limbo, Necromancy, Outer Space, Pining Draco Malfoy, Promises, Rebirth, Redemption, Slow Burn, Souls, Stars, Temporary Character Death, Undead, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulaethereal/pseuds/nebulaethereal
Summary: Set during the war; Draco finds Hermione dead on the battlefield. Due to a recent magical inheritance, he can resurrect the recently deceased. He chooses to try this out on Hermione.When he finds her dead for a second time, he resurrects her once again. And again several more times, until one night he fears that he might be too late.Will she come back to the land of the living, or will she and her soul be forever torn asunder?





	1. Going Under

“War sure is hell,” Draco was standing over Hermione, clutching her wand.

She was slowly regaining consciousness, and the first thing she saw when her eyes opened was Draco Malfoy handing her wand to her.

She had to wipe some of the blood from her vision before she could believe her eyes. “Thank… you…”

She leaned up slightly, reaching for the wand. He refused to let go.

Their eyes met when the wind blew open a shutter from a nearby window.

“I need a favor,” his solemn expression was serious.

“Okay…” She rose to sit up, attempting to rise to meet his height without frightening him.

He stepped slightly closer, “Stop fighting.” He wasn’t asking. He was commanding.

“I don’t follow.” Her voice was hushed, as she could hear others fighting nearby in the abandoned house that was once a safe-house for Deatheaters.

“I don’t want to run into you like this again,” he elaborated with finality.

Relinquishing the hold on her wand, he turned from her.

With her wand returned, she wringed her hands around it, looking it over. “Why is it always you? Always you who I wake up to, when the battle’s raging and I’m sure I’ve died?”

Confusion flooding her voice, she waited for a reply.

But upon looking up, she only saw his footprints ghosting in the ash and soot of wizarding war.

She remembered the taste of clove and seaweed.

“-Kedavra!” were the final words she recalled, careening into her at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.

She remembered the heat that followed, and the sensation of ice pricking the hairs on her shins. The speed at which she fell was breathtaking, and there was no telling when she might land.

All at once, her breathing was calm. All in an instant, there were feathers encasing her mind. All together, they were uplifting the weights in the pockets of her soul.

The bed of leaves she landed upon held her. The universe reverberated between her fingers and toes while a bird sang a song from her childhood.

When she opened her eyes, the vividness of her elation set in as deep as bone. She was crying out joyously.

Ethereal wisps were raising her to walk, and hover, and float toward the hereafter.

The real feeling began calling to her; the pull of reality. Her entire form was engulfed in light. However, a strength unknown to her was rending her from the sweet caress of death.

When she opened her eyes, Draco Malfoy stood above her, welcoming her back to the mortal coil once again—as was their tradition.

His expression, usually smug, fell upon seeing her rise.

She was ensconced in a pile of mud and rubble. She was bound to the bitterness of a reality that refused to let her die.

He’d ‘saved’ her on many occasions. It had been nearly a year since the first of such encounters.

Every time, there was a breathlessness to her. She even thanked him a few times.

The prospect of losing her frightened him in a way that he refused to face.

 

Tonight, with the rain beating down relentlessly through the destruction of battle, she lay there unspeaking.

The hollowness of her expression frightened him more.


	2. Undying Attentions

She wouldn’t get up. And when he lifted her to her feet, her listless expression suggested that she would have stayed there the entire night if he hadn’t disapparated the both of them to a secure location.

Upon arriving at the safehouse, he guided Hermione into the kitchen, sitting her down.

Her silence was unnerving. The short period of time that she was dead in his arms were the only times he could ever sit in silence with her.

As she stared into space, uninterested in the lavishly-decorated vacation home, he made them some tea.

“Why do you do it?” She suddenly asked.

He was overwhelmed with relief.

“Do what?”

“Keep bringing me back,” she seemed to be losing interest by the moment.

“Well it’s a simple thing, really. I inherited a gift of necromancy from an uncle of mine. Heh, I suppose you’re kind of my guinea pig. You’re the only one I’ve tried it on. I’m getting pretty good.” He was beginning to relax back into his usual cocky mood.

“I wish you’d stop.” She stated plainly, however resigned to the fact that the damage had been done.

He scoffed, wondering just how the smartest witch of her time could feel like death became her. “Why’s that? The Order not paying you good wages?”

Silence once again. He looked her over, and shook his head when his Dark Mark began to writhe. He covered it, as if trying to hide a well-known fact from her.

“Well, do what you wish. I won’t be saving you again, with that attitude,” he was swift to leave her through the mud-room doors.

Weeks had passed, and several battles to boot. He’d even gotten close enough to Potter to see the fatigue on his face, that which mirrored his own.

But Hermione wasn’t joined with them for nearly five battles. He was sure, he sought her out.

On one fateful night, he overheard Potter and another Weasley talking behind cover during battle.

“We’d have gotten the jump on them if Hermione was still here,” Potter said with exhaustion.

“There are just some things in life that can’t be undone, Harry.” A voice spoke, only to soon be muffled by the crash of battle.

Draco was torn by confusion. Battle was no place for him anyway. He snuck away until he was unseen, and travelled back to that safehouse.

She was right where he left her, drinking tea. His relief flooded his senses, until he realized the gravity of the matter, walking up to her.

She was still seated at the same table, with the very same cup of tea before her.

The signs of time had lain cobwebs over her hair and dust along her features. The blood from their last meeting was flaking off of her skin.

Something was terribly wrong.

“Granger, what are you still doing here?” He asked cautiously, pulling up a chair and sitting before her with scrutiny.

“I don’t care to leave.” Her voice was hoarse from days of disuse.

“Look at me,” he hoped she’d comply.

When she did, he regretted the request.

Her pupils, once surrounded by a rather enjoyable chocolate brown, were entirely blown out. It looked as if she were on some extremely strong hash.

The mystery lain before him suggested that, perhaps, he wasn’t as well-attuned to his powers as he originally thought.

She wouldn’t stop staring at him.

“Granger, that’s enough, you can… look somewhere else now.” He stood up to pace, thinking.

Her eyes wandered lazily, as if observing some dust in a ray of light.

“How are you feeling, Granger?”

She shrugged.

“Granger, answer me, do you feel any kind of power overwhelming you? Are you cursed?”

“I’d say so,” she replied coolly.

“What does that mean?”

She looked toward him. “You’ve cursed me, Malfoy.”

He screwed up his face, sneering in return. “I’ve done nothing of the sort.”

Her eyes began to stare just past his ear, making him need to check his surroundings. But nothing was there.

“I need to do some research, just… stay here.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice.


	3. Blind to The Problem

The Malfoy Manor’s library was abundant with forgotten lore and secrets. After retrieving a few books of interest, he stuffed them into a bag and made for leaving again. Bellatrix stood in the doorway.

“Nephew, how are you?” She asked, leading him into a conversation he was not in the mood to have.

“Aunt Bella, lovely to see you,” he replied cordially.

“Hmm, war is treating you so well,” she pawed at his hair.

“And you as well. However, I must be going, I need to go to Diagon Alley for supplies.” He made to move past her.

“Have you been practicing your gift?” She followed him out of the room.

“Here and there, yes. There are still some… kinks to work out. That’s what I’m seeking supplies for.”

“The Dark Lord will be pleased to know when you’ve perfected this talent, sweet nephew.” She cooed, letting him off the hook.

He’d been dreading the prospect for a long time now. But there was plenty of talk that, with Draco’s abilities, he’d be able to revive the Dark Lord indefinitely.

He’d kept them from knowing just how well he’d been doing. He’d also kept the identity of ‘who’ he’d been doing it to a secret.

Arriving back at the vacation house, he set the books out and sat down to pore over them.

He expected Hermione to reach for a book and join him.

When she didn’t even blink at the books, he knew that she was in trouble.

Over the next few hours, he took strands of her hair, fingernail clippings, and some dried blood for investigation.

His results weren’t encouraging.

“Everything in this book says that you’re undead.” He looked at her, waiting for her to assault him.

She merely acknowledged his presence with a bit of a nod.

“I’m afraid that the last time I pulled you from the depths that you… might have come back missing something.” He stared into her hollow eyes, taking in their frightening fathoms.

“I recall.” She offered.

He sat back, rolling his sleeves up in a fit of frustration. “You don’t seem to care about your… condition. Aren’t you at all interested in a cure?”

Part of her looked as if she was searching her thoughts, with a furrowed brow. After a moment, that expression released and her face went blank once more.

“Well, if only for MY sake, I’m going to find a cure. I can’t just have everyone I resurrect turning into some undead walking husk.” His frustration left with him as he went to another room to read, as if she was distracting him.

And she was.

She was distracting him more than any other time. More than when she answered every question in class. More than when she got better marks than him. More, even, than when she had fallen in battle and he had to work his magic once more.

It was a favor, after all. Why wasn’t she grateful?

He chalked it all up to her cursed condition, and put his nose to the book.

Hours passed before he found a piece of helpful information. Legilimency was comorbid with necromancer gifts. They were often used in tandem to perform more intricate tasks.

“Okay,” he sat down in front of her in the wee hours of the night.

With the book cracked next to him, he followed along the instructions.

Placing his hands upon her right palm and left temple, he began to focus. With a bit of effort, he could see past her immediate thoughts of “why am I here” and dove deeper into the memories of the night this all began.

Time flew by in his viewing. Up until the moment of her last breath, she was torn asunder from her soul, and sent into the ethereal plane.

He sat there with her. She was seated on the ground, staring out at the cosmos from a floating precipice. Every now and again she would reach her hand outward toward the untouchable, before sighing out.

If she could see him here, she didn’t acknowledge.

“Granger?”

“Hmm?”

“Where are we?” He asked.

“I suppose the word ‘dream’ fits best.” She turned to look at him curiously, “what are you doing here, Malfoy?”

He was unsure what the meaning behind her eyes held, since he had recently grown used to their empty depths. They almost sparkled.

Perhaps it was just this place.

“I was looking for you,” he took a few mental notes:

One: she was certainly stuck between two realms;

Two: this place seemed to hold as much power as her mind did;

Three: he couldn’t manage to keep his own barriers up in this place, suggesting that the mortal veil wasn’t the only one pulled aside.

The overwhelming sensation of exposure was rippling about him.

“And what was your plan when you found me?” She asked a bit too sweetly.

They were both seated like children in their first years of school: legs akimbo and hands resting by their ankles.

Even their clothes were from a simpler time. Her outfit was overalls and sockless feet, while his was some outdoor slacks and a casual t-shirt.

He felt far too unguarded, but couldn’t help but lean into the conversation he felt coming.

“I wanted to bring you back from this place. Your friends need you out there,” he finally replied.

“So I guess I really am dying.”

“Well, not entirely. I think you—this part of you, is just lost.”

She furrowed a brow, “You did this, didn’t you?”

“Did what?” He felt suddenly guilty.

“You kept bringing me back, and now this has happened!” She finally put the pieces together in her mind.

He couldn’t help but admit he missed this fire in her.

He couldn’t help but to resist the blame.

“I’m quite sure you’re missing the bigger picture here. I bring you back to fight another day, Granger.” His arms crossed childishly; defensively.

“And now, am I fighting? While I’m here, where’s the rest of me?” She squinted at him.

“You’re perfectly fine, albeit a bit listless. That’s why I’m here, to fix this little bump.”

She scoffed, “why is it always you stepping in? Years ago, you would have spit on my muggle-born grave. What’s changed since then to make you so keen on bringing me back time after time?”

His reasoning was stifled.

“See? You haven’t even thought this through fully. You of all people should know just how your actions have consequences!” She began to stand to continue her lecture.

He met her in stride, “Excuse me, let a man finish talking! I was going to explain; I am on a mission to.. hone my skills.”

“A mission assigned by whom?” Her suspicion rose while his eyes widened at his foolish admission.

“Besides, why should you care why I do it? Isn’t it a favor each time, granting you more time with your precious friends?” He attempted to derail her line of thinking.

“Voldemort… he’s the one making sure you practice, isn’t he?”

He too-quickly shook his head, “I don’t know what you mean… He doesn’t even know I’ve gotten this far.”

“Then who?” She insisted.

“Bellatrix, of course. Damnit, girl, just take no for an answer.” He was completely over this conversation, he had half a mind to leave. Something tugging at the back of his mind suggested he follow this impulse. Then she began talking again.

She was quite heated.

“I can’t believe this! This is an entirely new level of torture for you, isn’t it!? You make it sound as if you’re doing me a favor, or even some kind of double-agent for the war, but all along you’re just trying to find more methods of ruining our efforts.”

It wasn’t long before she was stomping up to him and shoving a finger into his chest.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, I won’t let you. You want me to leave this place? Make me. I’d love to see you try. I’d rather go mad in this limbo than help you and your Dark Lord in ending all that is right in this world.”

She seemed finished, judging from the way she walked to the edge of the precipice and sat, feet dangling and hair blowing in an unseen breeze.

He could feel the heat reverberating from her, even from this far away.

That pull once again, burning for his attention. He felt the urgency grow.

“Fine. Enjoy eternity, Granger. Stubborn woman…” He muttered after, casting himself from her realm and jerking back to reality.

The heat followed him, and managed to knock the wind from his lungs upon his landing back into his physical form.

The horrid smell of burnt hair filled his nose.

When he opened his eyes, he found the source to be her locks of hair, as well as his pant leg.

Frenzied, he rushed to pat his burnt leg out, as well as using the same blanket in hand to cover her entirely.

She had just sat there.

She had just sat there while the entire place was about to burn down due to log that had bounced out of the fireplace.

She had just sat there, silently, while they burnt alive.


	4. Snap Out

After the immediate danger was gone, having thrown the blanket on the flames along the floor and an end table, he dumped a kettle of water on the log.

Smoked-out and light-headed, he looked over at the girl sitting there idly.

Half of her hair had burnt off, and there were nasty burns up along the entirety of her right arm.

Could she even feel pain?  


He began to wonder just what he had created.

Lost in thought, he began to tend to her arm and shoulder, mixing salve up as he went.

“I can’t believe you just sat there, Granger.”

She remained silent and still.

“I mean, I could have died. If not for your sake, say something the next time that happens so I don’t perish with you. Bloody hell, this place will reek of burnt hair for months now. And by the way, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

It went on like this for a while, talking to himself.

“I was trying to talk some sense into your other half—soul or whatever you’d like to call it. Seems that you’re as dumb as you seem here. I mean, who wouldn’t have the sense to return to their body when called? And, also, I’ll have you know that there were plenty of reasons to keep bringing you back.”

He was using gauze to gently wrap salve and healing herbs onto her arm, down her elbow, to her fingertips. The entire appendage was such a mess. He was thankful she wasn’t there to scream in hurt.

“Not as if I need to tell you any of them. I’m just as much a fool as you are, talking to myself in hopes of some part of this husk of a witch to hear me out. I can’t really hold out much hope that you’ll realize the gravity of the situation. I mean, you’re the one to save us, aren’t you? Do you know that in the weeks you’ve been gone, two of yours have died? They’re useless without you, Granger. And, as if it needs to be said, I’m not exactly the best Deatheater. So, if you wouldn’t mind coming back to end this war for everyone’s sake, I’d love to get back to the comparatively dull life of a wealthy wizard.”

Securing the bandages with some thread, he assessed his handiwork and made sure it wouldn’t budge. “Not that it matters, but I bet you could play volleyball in this dressing without it budging,” he finished smugly.

With a sigh, he checked the time and dusted himself off. He decided to have some tea before bed to unwind the bundles of nerves creeping up his neck. 

As he sipped, he stared at her in terrific wonder. His brows furrowed with worry.

After dimming the fireplace and dousing the lights, he returned to her side. “I know it’s not much to you, but I’ll be going to bed. I do hope you’ll at least bang on something if disaster strikes again.”

Silence.

“Well, it was worth a try.” He left for bed, laying down without even so much as kicking his shoes off.

Irreverently dragged into slumber, he landed atop a plush cloud in the heavens, lazily drifting through space. He felt her presence. 

“I’m still cross with you,” she spoke, laying down next to him to admire the stars and nebulae.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

“Same reason you are. The view.”

He chuckled, “Right. So at no point are you going to yell at me?”

“Only if you give me a reason to.”

There was silence between the two of them which stretched on as far as the eye could see. There was no pull or expectation of conversation.

If it were possible, he felt as if he might fall asleep within this dream.

“You burnt yourself today.” He finally spoke, “thought you’d like an update on your husk.”

She barely looked at him, “Am I okay?”

“I guess. Your arm looks awful, though, but you didn’t seem to care.”

“What? What did you do?” She sat up, incredulous.

“I wrapped it up, used some of my best tinctures and balms—but you didn’t seem to care.”

“Okay… is that what I’m like? My shell?” She was suddenly concerned.

“Yea you just sit there, not eating, not drinking, not caring. I’m certain that I saw a spider crawl into your mouth and you just let it.” He shrugged.

He could feel the discomfort rolling off of her in waves. He dared not look over, though.

“I see.”

The silence was heavy this time.

“Yea, it’s honestly pretty decent, not having to hear you ramble on about some injustice, or show me how much smarter you are than me. Sure, I’d like my dining room chair back, but if it means not having to see your doe eyes fawn over the silliest things, I’ll let you have it.” He smirked at his wit.

“Well, if it suits me that well, perhaps you’re right, we shouldn’t mess up a good thing.” She stood, dusting herself off from the bits of cloud sticking to her.

He felt compelled to contradict himself, for the sake of his task, that is.

“I mean, there are perks, sure. But I imagine that Potter and the Weasels of the world are probably struggling to get by without you. I heard… your side lost a few people in the past weeks.”

A grievous shadow overcame her features as she looked at him.

“Weeks?”

“Yea, you’ve been here two and a half weeks.” He was sure he’d mentioned that at some point or another.

“I can’t—why didn’t you tell me!?” She looked as if she were trying to find the door to this place.

“You’re telling me that you’re not concerned with having almost burnt alive earlier—but you’re ready to return to the fight for your friends?” He was taken for a fool.

“Of course! They need me,” she was overcome with emotion, closing herself off. “I’m sure you’ve never felt the same kind of loyalty.”

He felt a pang somewhere beneath is sternum and thought a moment. It was clear to him that he did feel that kind of loyalty. In fact, that loyalty betrayed him on many occasions.

After all, he was the fool who kept resurrecting an enemy for the sake of familiarity.

All of his friends had either perished or turned heel.

“As a matter of fact—”

“WHY didn’t you tell me!? Please, just fix this, now! I need to get back to them.” She nearly stomped her feet.

“Okay! Jesus. Just calm down. We need to get out of my dream, first.” He stood up, never being the best at lucid dreaming, and pondered.

“Well?” She rushed him.

“I’ve never done this before, okay? Give me a second. I don’t know how to just end a dream.”

“WAKE UP!” She grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted in his face.

Dumbfounded, he stared at her. “Not helping.”

Urgency at its peak, he had a realization.

“Well, usually my dreams end in falling, perhaps if we just…” He stepped close to the edge of the cloud, nothing but darkness beneath them.

Before he could brace himself against the very palpable fear and vertigo before him, she grabbed his hand and jumped.

It usually didn’t take this long. He usually fell for a mere moment, and woke up.

This was different.

And he wasn’t screaming, like usual.

He could feel her still gripping his hand, but couldn’t see her through the dark of the night.

He squeezed.

With a snap, they fell through some kind of barrier, and the ocean became visible. With another snap, he was screaming. With a thud, he was on the floor of the bedroom.


	5. Calgone, Take Me Away

Groggily, he started to wake, and brought himself to his knees.

A tiny puddle of blood gathered beneath him as it dribbled from his nose.

Waking life taking a moment to settle in, he forgot completely his task. Then it struck him like dreams do.

Quickly, he came to stand and rushed down the stairs into the dark of the kitchen.

Searching for her, he came to find her seated at the table. He rushed to her side and grasped her good shoulder, hoping to rendezvous with her after their dream arrangement.

She stared into the nothingness, and it stared back into hers.

He was confused, annoyed, and rather crestfallen. Had she changed her mind?

He went to the books.

After thirty minutes of reading, he discovered his dilemma. While he assumed the hardest task would be to convince her to return to her body, the reality was much more tedious.

He’d need to give her hollow form, unbound by the trials of life, something to identify with. Strong emotions, memories, and reminders of how life was experienced through this vessel.

Some of the suggestions were targeted at loved-ones:

“Try showing them old photos, or reading them letters. An exceptionally good method is through sense memory. If there are smells or flavors they loved, bring them into their rebirth.”

The book went on to explain the emotional reawakening:

“For difficult cases, it has been found effective to use strong emotional triggers. The root of the ‘sleeping beauty’ is rooted in this in the form of a kiss. As effective, though, are triggers which anger the subject, but avoid topics of sadness such as death of loved ones or lost lovers.”

He was growing tired of trying to find the best method, and finally found that which suited him best:

“Although crude, an effective technique is to bombard the individual with many stimuli: smell, taste, emotion, memory…”

“Finally! Okay, where’s the durian extract…” He went to work creating a concoction of smells and flavors with which to bombard her senses.

With a rather awful spread before her, he began talk.

“So, Granger, you little know-it-all, how are we going to do this? Hmm? I don’t know what smells awaken your soul, but I do know what just might awaken the dead.”

He hovered an odd concoction under her nose. He could swear he saw her eye twitch ever so slightly.

“Hmm, perhaps that’s not strong enough. Here, perhaps you’re a sucker for the holidays, how about some pumpkin pie spices?” He hovered the strong tincture beneath her nose. Vanilla, nutmeg, cinnamon and clove all mingled together in the warm liquid.

The shadows danced over her features.

“Well, that was a bust.” He sniffed it himself. “Smells just like Christmas to me,” he huffed and turned around to find another bouquet. Behind him, she blinked slowly.

“What about this heinous sampling? Peet moss whiskey with mint, bottoms up!” He took a small spoon and slipped it between her lips.

It dribbled back out mostly.

Her mouth screwed up noticeably though.

“Okay then! We’re getting somewhere.

As he found a rhythm of work, he began to ramble.

“Do you recall when Snape would insist we test our own potions after brewing? I never had a problem with it until I was forced to partner with the Weasel. He’d brewed such an awful Polyjuice that I was not only deaf for an hour, but had cat ears. Bloody idiot—I never knew what you saw in him. Here, try this, it’s not entirely torturous.”

He slipped a spoonful of pumpkin juice into her mouth. He noticed none slipped out, and looked her over.

“How are we feeling?” He asked, hand on hip.

No reply.

He sighed, looking at how long he’d been trying. He hoped Hermione wasn’t changing her mind in the mean-time.

Little did he know, she was slowly slipping back into her shell, bit by bit.

“Okay, I need to think of something to appeal to your emotions—here, hold this.” He propped open the large book in her lap, reading it as he worked.

“How about this? You’ll never be half the wizard I am.” He nodded. It was surreal, even to him, since not a drop of malice or heart was behind his words.

They had no effect.

As time went on, he began to grow weary. His sleeves were rolled up and he was running out of things to have her smell and eat.

For a break, he made tea.

“You know, I get that I’ve been a total prat about this whole ordeal. It’s not as if you asked for any of this, or my help. I suppose I just thought of it as a small act of rebellion. Nobody really wants the Dark Lord to win, mind you—sure all of you would be under our power, but we’d all be under his, in the end. Purebloods tend to prefer being top of the food chain, of course you know.”

He made her a cup as well, and tossed together some marmalade toast.

“I think the first time I did it, I pitied you. You were fighting so well, and someone came up behind you and just… blip, you were gone. It’s a wonder, how fleeting life can be, innit?” He chewed on a bit of toast from the stove, leaning against the counter.

“And the second time, it was the same thing, but I pitied you less. I pitied your friends—I knew they were done without you. You carry them like a leader, not that they’d ever realize it. Especially not that weasel.”

He sipped some of his tea.

“The last time, though, that was for me. I think that bringing you back has made me feel… successful, if that makes sense. I’ve been a failure at nearly every task given to me, but bringing you back comes naturally. Even rodents won’t come back to me. But you come back, every time.”

He turned to give her the tea, purely out of habit, when he saw him facing her.

She was unmoving, and yet he could have sworn she wasn’t in that position originally.

He shook off the notion and returned to his toast.

“So memories are supposed to pull you in, right?”

Silence.

“Well, if you’ll recall, that day when Professor Lupin was running wild on campus, you showed off your right hook.” He dabbed his nose, the blood drying from his meeting with the floor.

“I remember.”

“Yes, well, so do I—I remember deserving it, too—” He turned to face her, taking in her new, pained expression.

“It worked!” He almost shouted, rushing to her and sloshing his tea.

Upon grasping her own arm, he realized some of the unsavory aspects of her ‘rebirth’.

Quickly, he went to the liquor shelf and pulled out some firewhiskey, bringing it over to her along with a couple of glasses. “Here, this helps with the pain, at least until I can conjure up something more lasting.” He walked off to the nearby apothecary table to brew, muttering, “idiot, you should have given her something for the pain by now…”

She took the glass, downed it swiftly in hopes of quick relief. Instead the whiskey burnt her throat. Now her throat and arm burned. She winced in a moment of agony. She could hardly bear touching the arm.

“Give me a minute, it won’t take long,” he called after her, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“Yea… no rush,” she choked out. With each moment, more sensations overcame her. Included were the myriad of awful smells coming from the table in front of her.

In an effort to run from the stench, she took the glass and stood. Without much warning, her legs gave out from beneath her entirely and she landed on the ground with wild curses.

He joined the symphony of curses, rushing over with a half-brewed potion in hand, to find her writhing atop her arm, and flopping onto her back.

Sprawled out on the floor, she looked extremely pitiful. Her hair, the length half-burnt off, was wet with whiskey around her face. Blood was soaking the bandages, and she seemed unable to even stand properly. From the floor, he crouched down, crushed the final ingredients into the potion, and it burst into a puff of smoke. The result was a small pill, and he quickly propped her head up and placed it beneath her tongue.

“Sublingual application should work pretty quickly…” he seemed to mutter to himself.

As it dissolved, she felt the effects mingling with the whiskey, and almost moaned out in relief.

“Better?”

She nodded from this position, her head in his lap.

“Well, why can’t you walk…” he pondered, trying to read the book from a distance.

She was too busy basking in the painless moment to offer advice.

He was idly toying with the burnt ends of her hair while he read.

“Wow, okay. So, apparently it will take a few hours for your immobility to wear off. We’re lucky you’re able to use your arms.” He looked down at her, wondering if she was listening.

She was just staring up at him.

“Did you catch that?” He asked.

“So, am I going to have to stay on your lap all night?” She seemed a tad woozy.

“Um,” he felt blush creeping over his neck and face.

“Here, I can put you on the couch,” With a bit of maneuvering, he stood, lifted her briskly, and set her on the nearby seating.

“That okay?” He asked, his inner host coming out.

She nodded, “I have a favor to ask, though,”

He leaned in from a nearby chair, “Sure, what?”

“Stop fighting,” she said.

Surprised, he merely sat back, and mulled the request over between his thumbs.

“Deal.”


End file.
